


Just Enough

by bonebo



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: mentions of non/dub-con, pensive thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 09:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's toiled his entire existence to please others, to constantly be worth something.</p><p>He wishes he could just be himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Enough

_“Starslut,”_ they call him, as he staggers from Megatron's chambers bleeding yet again, old wounds and newly-healed pride all torn apart again. _“Screamer.”_

He hears the whispers in the halls, nanoklicks before he passes—muted mutters and snickering, and as he whirls upon the two 'cons they immediately snap to attention. They're silent as they endure his tongue-lashing, faceplates blank and emotionless, but one flinches slightly as he lets his blaster slide out.

Still unsatisfied but a little less angry, he turns to leave; he's not even two strides away before—

_”Must have a big ole spike stuck up that tight aft of his, yeah?”_

Two blaster shots silence the laughter that follows, before their frames come crashing to the floor. Starscream turns on his heel, seething as he storms down the hall, servos clenched tightly and wings pulled up taut; the two murders did nothing to quell his sour mood, and he doubts that more would help. What would help—what he wants, what he needs—is someone to vent to, someone to reassure him, an army that will obey him and co-commanders that respect him. Is that really too much to ask, for a mech who's spent his entire existence fighting to prove himself, that's had to grieve for his beloved city turned to ash and rubble for so long that he's almost forgotten what the beautiful spires once looked like?

Maybe it is.

Because as it stands all he has to his name are sore wings, a mocking legion, and a brute of a leader who won't listen to a fragging thing he says. Absurdly, he wishes for a different time—back when he had no brand upon his wings, when he had comrades he could depend upon and a city he adored, when he had one scientist in particular who always knew how to ease the tension from his frame on the longest days and exactly where to touch to set his engine purring...

Starscream's vents sigh as he pulls himself from the reverie, and he glances out one tall window to the sky beyond; it looks so open, so free and uninhibited, without a single flaw or restriction upon it. Free to bend to the wind and exist how it pleases, enjoy the air and the sunshine and it is, truly, everything he gave away and everything he wishes he could be.

Everything he cannot be—not for quite some time.

But still...

He transforms quickly, bolting out the open window and shutting off his comms—he doesn't want to be disturbed, not right now. Because right now he is not the Decepticon Air Commander, he is not the laughingstock of the army and the officer no one fears, he is not the one who made a mistake all those orns ago and lost everything he cared about—gave it up, really, threw it away—just for the chance to follow behind some idiotic brute with his brains in his fists and watch as he led the ravage of their world.

For right now, blessedly, he is Starscream—just Starscream, a flier who has happily lost himself amid the streaking pinks and purples of a dying sun.

And for right now, for him alone, that is enough.


End file.
